


Hogosha

by wolfgirl232



Series: New York City Heat [6]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-21 07:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1542914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfgirl232/pseuds/wolfgirl232
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave gets jumped at school, and John is not happy about it in the slightest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tsumi

They are on you as soon as you round the corner of the mathematics building, four of them, huge silhouettes with their backs to the sun. For a split second you think it has to be a mistake, but no. You know why they are here. 

One of them sends you sprawling across the concrete, your shades knocked from your face. They go skidding away from you, the scrape of metal against the grit abnormally loud. 

“We saw you.” The first one intones, moving to stand by your head.

“Saw me what if I may ask?” You croak out, the wind knocked from you. You squeeze your eyes shut against the harshness of the sunlight.

“We saw you kiss that other fag this morning. Admit it faggot.”

“I will admit that I get much more ass than all of you combined.” You can’t stop yourself. Your tongue is the only thing they can’t take from you. Well you suppose they could, but—

The kick connects with your ribcage, and you are gasping for breath, curled in on yourself. Everything in the whole world hurts, and it is all you can do to remain silent while the space behind your eyes goes white. There is nothing left to do but endure the rest of the pummeling, the separate kicks to your abdomen melding into one wall of pain that collapses downward on you and has your fingers shaking.

 

You don’t see them leave.


	2. Itami

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dave goes home.

You try to close the door quietly behind you, but the click of the lock still echos against the high ceiling. You are so relieved to be back in your own apartment.

John comes striding out of his bedroom, confusion on his features. He knows your schedule better than you at this juncture, and you should have been home thirty minutes ago. You and he had planned to see a movie this afternoon, but the showtime must have passed by now.

It is not shame, but a touch of fear that has you ducking your head and jamming your glasses more firmly into place against the bridge of your nose.

John comes to stand in front of you, and it takes you a moment to look up at him.

When you finally do, it is a few heartbeats before he seems to be able to process your face. You watch his eyes darken dangerously as his thumb comes up to brush over your split lip, your mouth now stained with blood. He takes a half step closer to remove your cracked shades, runs his fingertips over the tender skin below your left eye, now mottled red and purple from where your cheek caught the pavement. You know what you look like. You ducked into a convenience store bathroom on the way home to glance at yourself. You wanted to know first what John would have to see.

You can tell it’s taking everything he has to contain himself. The fingers of his other hand are shaking slightly, his jawline tight. His burning cerulean eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment you are very frightened. You realize for the first time since the war that the lighthearted boy in the blue pajamas is not one to cross. For a moment, you almost feel sorry for a few members of the lacrosse team.

“Who was it.” It’s hardly a question. His voice is flat, but you can feel your hair stirring in the wind.

You procure your laptop from your bedroom and join John on the couch, looking the four boys up on Facebook. He remains stonily silent beside you as you scroll through the photos.

When he is satisfied, he leads you into the bathroom, stripping you down gently. He is still silent as he discards his own clothes and turns on the water, patiently adjusting the faucets.

You climb in after him, attempting to bury your face in his chest, but instead he takes your face in his hands, lifting your lips to his. His tongue flicks out to lap at the dried blood on your lower lip. You are sure it is all gone after a while, but he continues to suck at the wound, until your tongue moves to meet his, and then you are dancing, your mouths parting over and over again. Eventually, his lips slip up to your forehead, and you let your face slide down to his shoulder, nose pressed to his neck.

You cling to him under the spray, both of you unmoving as the water runs over your bodies, flushing your skin. It feels like hours before John finally moves for the shower gel, filling his hands with soap and massaging it into your back. Reluctantly, you let go of him so he can smooth the soap over the rest of your body, his hands gliding over your shoulders and under your arms, meticulous and tender. His fingers slip down from your shoulder blades, around your chest and down your ribcage—

The gasp that escapes you has John staggering backward. The pain radiates through your body. You and he both look down at your ribs, and you notice for the first time the redness beginning to show just below your chest. John steps back toward and you lays his palm gently against you, and just the contact of his skin has you hissing in pain.

He removes his hand and pulls you under the water, sloughing the soap from you. “I’m taking you to the ER.”

“N—”

His eyes snap to yours again, the searing blue cutting your protest short. You know it is not a request.

 

You drive in silence to the nearest hospital, and find two isolated seats beside the vending machines in the inhospitable waiting room. Several of the other people strewn throughout the rows of chairs glare at you with hard eyes when you lean your cheek on his shoulder, but you could not give one single fuck. The last one you had was kicked out of you earlier this afternoon.

 

You nap with your head in John’s lap while he thumbs through the several dated copies of _Popular Photography_ , fading in and out, marking time by how often the faces in the room change. Several hours later, you wake with his lips on your forehead as he leans over you.

“Mmm?” you hum at him sleepily.

“Come on sweetheart, it’s your turn.” You let him help you up from the chair, your breathing shallow as pain lances through your side.

They make you lie back on the examination table in a private room while they poke and prod at you, and write various numbers on various charts. The people in lab coats all seem very flustered when you refuse to remove your aviators, but John silences them all. “They stay on,” he snaps at each one of them in turn, and there is no arguing with the assertion in his voice.

Your head is turned away from the nurse, staring blankly at the wall through your shades as you answer her monotonous questions. If you have to tell one more person you are allergic to Bactrim you are going to fly off the handle.

“Right...any major surgeries?”

“No.”

“Asthma, diabetes, anemia, or any other deficiencies?”

“No.”

“How did you receive this injury?”

You have been wondering all night how to explain that one. You had been constructing several different diatribes, all of which were prepared to trip off your tongue, but the moment you open your mouth, all that comes out is “Hate crime.”

You can see the nurse out of the corner of your eye as she glances from you to John and back, before scribbling something on her clipboard. Yes, go ahead, you think. Draw rainbows across my medical forms. Maybe she thinks you should have listed that as one of your deficiencies.

 

The doctor finally comes in, and proceeds to ask if this hurts, or what about that and god you hate hospitals. Finally, after a lot of notes have been taken on your various states of physical existence he proclaims that you have a minor fracture in one rib and quite a bit of bruising. He writes you a prescription for a painkiller and instructs you to rest.

“Does your university have a program to stream its classes online?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes.” Awesome. Now you too can have ‘special consideration’. You think of the bruising your cool will take when that one teacher that takes roll will call your name, and the moment of silence that will follow, before he points up to the camera in the back of the room and goes, “Ah, yes. That’s right.” Maybe you’ll double the painkiller dosage that day.


	3. Houfuku

The day you finally return to school, you slide as inconspicuously as possible into your seat of your first lecture. You start setting up shop, pulling your laptop from your backpack, proud of yourself for not leaving any porn visible on your desktop like a fucking secret surprise weekend-you left for the people sitting in the row above.

The professor strides into the room, arms full of papers, before he begins passing back the previous week’s tests. In the general murmur of the students, your ears suddenly catch one of the girls a few seats down from you say something about lacrosse. Swiveling slightly to let your ear catch the conversation, you leaf through the stack of papers handed to you looking for your name.

“...and I heard no one knows why. It’s like, one day they were here, and the next, poof. Gone. Expelled, too. I just feel so bad for Leigh…”

Woah. Does that mean what you think it means? You knew for a fact that Leigh Hoffmen had been dating one of your attackers. Immersed in thought as you are, you almost shove the stack of tests into the eye of the person sitting next to you when you try to pass them over. Smooth, Strider. Real smooth.


	4. Inkei

“Jooooooohn…” you call out as you walk through the door.

John pokes his head out of his room. “Yeah?”

You plant your feet apart and cross your arms across your chest. You tilt your head down, allowing your aviators to slide down a few dramatic centimeters. “Did you get the lax bros kicked out?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” he replies, one eyebrow betraying him as it flicks upward slightly.

“You’re lying.”

“Oh?”

“You always do that thing. With your eyebrow. Because you’re a total dork.”

“Dork I may be, but I can still have you on your knees at a word…” John sings out as he ducks back inside his room.

Fuck him for always being right. You sling your bag onto the couch, following the sound of his voice down the hall like a puppy. 

He doesn’t even have to say anything.


End file.
